


call me

by sybarite1



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 22:40:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18433565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybarite1/pseuds/sybarite1
Summary: Starbucks and other quandaries.





	call me

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> Written after 4x12 but set before 4x12.
> 
>  

 

Despite individual humans being _very_ breakable, when taken as a whole they could be difficult to manage.  Not Quentin and his little group, always so twitchy whenever he went to see them.  No, it was more, hmmm... the systems?  Yes, the _systems_ these humans came up with.  Take Starbucks for example.  He didn't want to wait in a line with the crush of jabbering humans.  The first time he'd went to one and someone had tried to _make_ him wait, he'd popped their heads off one by one.  They were already all in row after all.  But the problem was, after he was done, the little people behind the counter wouldn't come out to make him a drink.  Even when he threatened them _quite_ seriously, all they would do was cry and retch and plead.  One started praying.  It was _horrible_. 

So now he has to wait, the power of a god trapped in this stupid human system because without realising it, they designed it quite well.  One of the okay parts of the wait is learning how the system works.  He needs money, which he has, though not always the right kind.  He also needs a name.  This is... it makes him feel funny inside.  The one from before, who played with him in the castle, had called him _darling, sweeting, my heart_ , but he knows now that these are not _real_ names.  In fact, you can call anyone those things.  He doesn't like how that knowledge makes him feel either.  He doesn't like this situation.  He doesn't like this situation _at all_ , and if he weren't alone someone could do it for him and it would all be better.  But no one will come with him unless he _makes_ them and sometimes that's too much like work, nothing like a game at all.  

He realised even the dogs in the parks had names, he tried a few of them but none seemed right.  _Nothing_ feels right in this body's stomach, along the back of its neck.  All the names he's tried slither off all wrong wrong wrong; _Nigel, Eliot, Monster_.  It hates them all.  Nothing feels good to it at all, except-

"Name please?"

"Quentin."

 

 


End file.
